


When Heaven and Hell Collide

by widowbitesandhearingaids



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, F/M, Heaven and Hell au that no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:37:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4530972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/widowbitesandhearingaids/pseuds/widowbitesandhearingaids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is an angel of Heaven, sent to destroy the notorious demon who calls herself Natasha. Love, loss, and a new meaning to the term "falling for someone."</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Heaven and Hell Collide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ftmsteverogers (wistful_joy)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ftmsteverogers+%28wistful_joy%29).



> So this is the angels and demons au that no one asked for but i wrote anyway. dedicated to the amazing Nate (barneswilson on Tumblr). Happy birthday my love <3
> 
>  
> 
> I'm on tumblr! widowbitesandhearingaids.tumblr.com

When Heaven gives orders, you obey. No questions, no comments, just immediate compliance. That's the status quo when you live within the Pearly Gates.

Clint's never been good at that. He's great at pretending to be a dutiful solider, but he's always known that he's different. The other angels – especially his fellow archangels – never seem to question their assignments like he does. They follow orders without complaint, never taking a moment to question _why_. Or, at least, Clint doesn't think that they do. He learned a long time ago to keep his doubts to himself, and if any of his siblings to the same, he can't tell. Sometimes, he'll hesitate a split second before a kill, just to see if any of them do the same. They never do.

But as much as he questions, when Heaven commands, the angels obey. Free will is for humans, and everyone knows what happens to those who go rogue. The story of Lucifer is so famous that even the humans down on Earth know of it – and information trickles down to them hopelessly slow.

This time, however, Clint has no objections at this target. Adomaveth, the Red Death, is infamous even among demons, and has been collecting souls for Hell since before Clint existed. Angels have been sent to dispatch her, but they never return. Smited, or so corrupted that their wings have been stripped and they were cast out of Heaven. Clint has lost friends to her. Nearly everyone in the garrison has. It's an honor to be assigned to kill her, not to mention a chance to prove himself. He's the youngest of the archangels, and his siblings still treat him like he's breakable, a child with small, downy wings. If he destroys her, Clint will be a hero. Not that he's doing it for the attention, of course. It's all for the glory of Heaven. Always for the glory of Heaven.

It takes him a long time to find her, and Clint's being careful. She's dangerous, that's for certain, and Clint has no interest in dying. Yet another quality that separates him from his family. They throw themselves into missions with no regard for their own safety. Clint wants to live, thanks. Unlike the mortals, he's only got one shot at this – there's no afterlife for angels. When he finally does find her, she's in Budapest. If the demonic energy is any indication, she's been here for a while. Carefully, glamoring himself to blend in with the humans, Clint retraces her steps ad then waits. He has no plans to destroy her today. Today is for observation. So Clint perches himself on a balcony across the street from where the hellish signature is the strongest, watching the night fall and sipping a small cup of espresso. It's one of his guilty pleasures. Angels don't need to eat or drink, but one of the best parts of coming down to Earth is coffee. It is, in his opinion, the closest human beings have come to reaching divinity.

He expects Adomaveth to be hideous – most demons are. They glamor themselves like angels do, or more often, use vessels to hide their presence. The fact that Adomaveth chose to use a glamor instead of usurping a human body is strange, but it allows Clint to see her true self more easily. And he expects to notice her on the mortal-choked street, easily spot the disgusting creature among peaceful mortals.

Clint is wrong.

She's not ugly, not a grotesque parody of humanity like most of her brethren. She shines with dark energy, like an inverted angel's glow. Her black skin is carved with satanic markings, ceremonial and terrible. Dark and dangerous and…beautiful. Clint tears his eyes away for a moment, shock and shame blooming within him. Demons are abominations, twisted human souls incapable of redemption. But she's not like them. She's –

Fallen. Suddenly it all makes sense; how's she's avoided Heavenly justice for so long. How she's killed so many of them. She used to _be_ one of them. A Prince of Hell, one of Lucifer's allies in the great schism with the Father. Clint suddenly feels very young and very inexperienced. He's only a few millennia old, and the Princes haven't been seen since before he had wings. It's extraordinary that he's heard of her at all – the names of the Princes were stricken, all but Lucifer, who's name was allowed to tarnish and decay. He became a lesson. The other Princes just got lost. Rumor had it that they withered away and died in some decrepit pit in Hell. Clint always liked that rumor. It was a comfort and, evidently, false.

 _He's testing me_ , Clint realizes with a start. _Father knows my doubts, and this trial is to prove my loyalty._ The thought makes his stomach roil – a very human reaction – and he quickly tamps it down. _I will not fail_ , he promises, sending the prayer up to Heaven. He falters halfway through, seeing Adomaveth moving below him. Carefully, Clint tracks her to a pier at the edge of town. It doesn't take her very long to attract the men lurking there. Clint isn't surprised. Demons are seducers, first and foremost, and Adomaveth's glamor is enticing. All red hair and swinging hips and – Clint forces himself to look somewhere else, feeling the guilt flare again. He's an _archangel_. It's high time he acted like one.

Adomaveth leads the men further and further into the shadows, allows herself to be cornered before slipping out of her human skin and revealing the demon within. Clint has half a mind to intervene but it would give him away – a Prince would recognize an angel instantly – and the men have stains on their souls anyway. They would never make it to Heaven. Not to mention that it's invaluable to watch her in motion. She isn't violent or crude like lesser demons, but moves fluidly, precisely, as graceful as any angel. Surely more graceful than him, and she doesn't even have grace anymore. It looks like a dance, careful and perfectly choreographed. A dance that leaves her partners doomed to eternal damnation, but a dance nonetheless. The men are dispatched within seconds, their mortal bodies ruined, and slowly, Adomaveth presses her lips to each of theirs, pulling their souls loose. Clint watches as they're dragged to Hell, sucked down under the floor and beyond his sight. Despite the obvious horror, it's beautiful, the way she moves. And terrifying. Clint's wings twitch with anticipation and nervousness. If there's a demon meant to kill angels, it's her, and Clint tries to convince himself that he won't be her next causality.

He has to do this tonight. There's not going to be a better opportunity than this, and the longer he waits, the better chance that she'll see him coming.

"Please, step into my office." Or she'll see him coming anyway. Clint freezes when a light, cool voice sounds the moment he walks into the warehouse where she's holed up.. He's at his most impressive; all enormous wings and Heavenly bow and arrow nocked and ready to strike. It's his weapon of choice, though he does carry a few angelic blades with him at all times. Usually tucked away in a pocket dimension where he can always reach them. They're not as awe-inspiring as his bow, which always makes a splash. But clearly she's been waiting for him. Unglamored, Adomaveth turns to face him, a small smile curling her lips up in the corners. It's not a nice smile. Up close, she's even more – just _more_. Dark energy swirls around her like storm clouds; it's almost as if she's leaking Hell out of her pores. Everything about her is shades of gray and black, the exact opposite of an angel's true form. Well, everything except her eyes. Somehow, they manage to stay a dark, glittering green and Clint can feel them raking him up and down. He opens his mouth to speak, to decree Heaven's will be done, when she bursts into laughter. Clint nearly takes to the air it's so unexpected. "You should see the look on your face," she giggles, her voice high and clear. "Come on hero, that was funny and you know it." For a second, Clint doesn't know how to respond, so he goes for the old standby.

"Denizen of Hell, you will not escape – "

"Heaven's justice. You will be smited and this world will be rid of you and your treachery once and for all," Adomaveth finishes for him. She turns, revealing two ugly gold scars where her wings should have been. Before they were ripped off and she was tossed out of Heaven. "Don't you get tired of that old mantra? Don't you ever want to shake it up a little? Smiting demons does get aggravating after a few thousand years. Believe me, I know. I was the very best at it."

"You're Fallen," Clint says, trying to sound more certain than he feels. "You're an abomination and a disgrace to Heaven, and I will kill you."

"Fallen…" she repeats, the smile fading somewhat. "And what a Fall it was. They said that Luci was His favorite, but I always thought that I was."

"Then why?" Clint has to ask. "Why rebel against Heaven?"

"Is that what I did?" she muses. The smile returns and the dark energy around her intensifies. "Well then, you should certainly try to kill me." The air fills with smoke and suddenly the stench of demons becomes overwhelming. Clint whirls, slashing through one before it has a chance to materialize, and then Adomaveth is right in front of him, amusement shining in her green eyes. Before he can so much as twitch, something sharp pricks the hollow of his throat, and Clint doesn't have to look to know that it's a Devil's Blade. An angel killer. "Unfortunately, hero, you've got competition," Adomaveth murmurs, so close that he can taste the sulfur on her breath. Clint closes his eyes, preparing to feel her knife rip into him, to feel his grace drain away along with his only shot at life. But instead her lips ghost across his, setting something afire within him. "I hope they don't kill you. You're interesting. For an angel." Those lips disappear, along with the rest of her, and then Clint is alone.

Well, alone with half a dozen demons. It takes a split second for the surprise to wear off, but when it does, Clint explodes into action, ripping into the demons like he was born to do it. Which, as an angel, he is. And the next time he meets Adomaveth, he intends to prove it.

* * *

 

None of the demons make it out. It takes Clint a while to destroy them all – he's good, but it's still six on one. Not to mention that there are more coming. As soon as the last of them has turned to dust, Clint flies out of the warehouse, wearing only the thinnest of glamors. The night is dark and humans aren't the most observant to begin with, not to mention that he doesn't have time to waste. If this is a test, he's failing. She can't get away from him again.

This time, she's not waiting for him. This time, he goes for stealth. This time, he's not the only one gunning for her, and he doesn't get there first.

"Levi Levi Levi." Clint recognizes Adomaveth's voice immediately, and senses the two demonic presences just as fast. He can't see either of them from his spot, but there's an odd hitch in her voice that wasn't there before. "How did I know that he'd send you? Or did you volunteer?" She laughs that tinkling bell laugh again and it sends shivers up Clint's spine. "You always resented the fact that he loved me best."

"Past tense." The second voice is rough like stones breaking and Clint tenses.

"But then again, you did Fall for the sin of envy," Adomaveth says silkily and Clint starts. Another Prince of Hell? Honestly? "Leviathan. Not nearly as catchy as 'Lucifer' or 'Satan' but I suppose if people actually knew your name you wouldn't be such a jealous wreck." Leviathan snarls and the shiver gets worse, slicing through his whole body. Angels don't shiver. Too late, Clint realizes that one of the Princes – probably Adomaveth – is doing something to him. He burns her magic away and steps into the light, leveling his weapon at Leviathan. Neither of them notice him, because suddenly the two demons erupt into violence, throwing themselves at one another. Adomaveth slashes at Leviathan with knives that crackle with dark energy, and Clint looses an arrow. Between both of their attacks, Leviathan bleeds black ichor from two different wounds and screams in pain.

"Angel," Leviathan growls, squaring off against Clint. He's enormous and he reminds Clint of an inverted version of his brother Gabriel.

"Hero!" Adomaveth says cheerfully. "You lived!" Now that she's stationary, Clint can see how badly she's wounded. The marks on Leviathan look like love taps compared to the work done on her.

"You are awfully young to be sent after a Prince," Leviathan says coldly. "You must have done something to make the Father send you." He smiles nastily. "Clearly you are a disappointment, sent on a suicide mission. Does that depress you, little soldier, knowing that your precious God thinks you're disposable?" Clint doesn't answer, flying at him, and then time melts like it always does during a battle. And it _is_ a battle. Clint is still hurting after tearing through the previous demons, and Leviathan is like nothing he's ever fought before. Every one of his attacks is matched and then countered, until Clint is on the defensive more than anything else. A final, glancing blow sends Clint spinning to the floor, one of his wings bent beneath him, and somehow he knows that he's not making it out of this. _Sorry_ , he says to anyone who's listening. "Goodbye, little angel," Leviathan growls, towering over him. "I hope this will be painful." Clint makes a last minute attempt to defend himself, but Leviathan rips his final arrow away from him and stomps on his wrist, shattering it. "Pathetic."

"You certainly are," Adomaveth murmurs, appearing at his side and sliding her blade into his back. Leviathan screams, spinning to return the attack, and Clint staggers to his feet. He grabs for the arrow and plunges it through the demon's neck. The scream turns into a gurgle and Leviathan bursts into flames before vanishing into dust. Clint doesn't think he's gone forever, and his instincts have always been good. "You know what his problem always was?" Adomaveth asks, swaying dangerously on her feet. "He's always in his own head." Black blood trickles from over a dozen deep wounds all over her body and Clint knows that it's just a matter of time. And from the looks of it, she won't reform in Hell like the other Prince. Another annoying perk of being damned is that it's practically impossible to be killed completely. Especially with more powerful demons. They're like human Marines. They just go to Hell and regroup. Which makes Heaven's job so much more difficult because angels don't get that kind of chance. There are always going to be more demons than angels. She tilts, staggering into the wall before sliding into a crumpled heap on the floor.

"C'mere," she mumbles, beckoning him over. 'M'not gonna bite. Promise." Clint has no reason to believe her, but she's also in no position to attack him. The last blow Leviathan managed sliced her open from navel to breastbone and her arms are wrapped around her midsection to keep her rotted, corrupted grace from spilling out. Painfully, walks towards her, holding his arrow like a spear in case she tries anything. But instead of begging or threatening, Adomaveth reaches for the arrow and presses it against her own chest. "Make it count, 'kay?" she slurs, those bright eyes beginning to droop closed.

"What?" Clint asks, unable to keep his surprise hidden. Too tired. Too hurt.

"Heart shot," she mumbles. "Don' wanna go back. Won' go back there, hero." Her eyes close, and Clint knows that he has to do it. He has to kill her. This is the test. The Father needs him to dispose of this demon, to rid His world of her filth once and for all. But her last words ring in his ears and he can't get his arm to move. _Won' go back there_. And before, when he'd mentioned her Fall… She'd seemed almost sad.

Part of him screams to kill her. She's evil, she's an abomination, and she should die. He's an angel. This is what he was created to do.

But she doesn't want to go back. Never, in his entire existence, has Clint come across a demon that didn't beg for their life, or threaten his. Never has he met any of Hell's spawn that _insisted_ that he kill them.

Muttering a curse in Enochian, Clint gathers Adomaveth's body in his arms and glamors them both. This is a bad idea. A _terrible_ idea. And if any of his siblings decide to check in on him before he decides what to do, well, then all Hell is going to break loose.

* * *

 

He's there when she wakes up. There aren't very many places where an angel can stash a demon without being traced by either Heaven or Hell, but Clint knows most of them. The one he settled on is actually not far from Budapest. A long time ago, some religious wackos decided to meddle with magic they couldn't control and set up a bunker. They all died of course, humans usually do when messing with the occult, but they did succeed in making a blank spot on the map. Uncharted, untraceable, mostly unknown. Clint stumbled across is a hundred or so years ago by accident, while doing a sweep of the area. It's been his little secret for a long time and he's glad of it. It's come in handy.

"I am not dead," she says. Her voice is thick with sleep and she doesn't bother with a glamor. Neither does Clint, for that matter. His angelic form has always been smaller than his siblings' but he's hoping his grace will grow with time. Still he has to do a little magic to fit inside the bunker comfortably. "You didn't kill me. Why didn't you kill me?"

"Because you asked me to," Clint replies. His broken wing twinges when he moves, and it feels like his whole body is covered in gold nectar – the angelic equivalent of Ace bandages – but he's still alive. For her part, Adomaveth is healing well, but she's been unconscious for over two days.

"You're a fool," she says sharply. The laughter and smiles from their first encounter are gone, replaced with cold stares and scowls. "You should have killed me when you had the chance." Clint doesn't answer. Part of him agrees. He's been telling that part to shut up for several days now. She yanks on the chains binding her to the wall, looking more like she needs something to do than searching for weaknesses. "You know, if you weren't so stupid, I'd think you were smart."

"Why's that?" Clint asks. He knows that she's baiting him but he can't help it. He's never been able to help it, that's his whole problem.

"The way you found me in Budapest. This. Blessed iron with inlaid pentagrams. It's good. It's all very good. I'm guessing you've got a few more surprises stashed away for me." That was an understatement. The humans who'd created this place did a fine job of protecting it, but Clint had gone overboard with protective spells, sigils, pentagrams….you name it, he's carved it on the walls. It's airtight now; nothing getting in or out. Except for him, of course.

"So," she says, leaning against the wall and looking him dead in the eye. "What are you going to do with me?"

"I haven't decided," Clint says. It's the truth.

"You're a fool," she says again, dropping her eyes. After that, she closes up, refuses to speak to him. Clint doesn't know how to feel. He's betrayed his Heavenly mandate by saving her, and yet he doesn't regret it. Not yet anyway. But there's something so different about her – not to mention that she's got fellow Princes trying to kill her, on top of the might of Heaven. If there's a creature in this world with fewer friends, Clint can't think of one.

Eventually, he leaves. The bunker is secure and she's not going anywhere. As long as she stays inside, she'll be safe. And so will he.

Somehow, and Clint isn't sure exactly _how_ , a routine starts to form. His ascension back into Heaven was met with uproarious praise. Killing not one, but _two_ Princes? As young as he is? It's a miracle. His siblings start allowing him to sit in on strategy sessions that had been forbidden to him before. He's stopped and congratulated when doing rounds. A seraphim even goes as far as to say that the Father is pleased with him. It's everything he thought it would be – he's a hero.

And he deserves none of it. All of this praise, and Adomaveth is the one who killed Leviathan, and she's not even dead herself. Just locked away in the bunker, no doubt working out some way to escape and stab him in the back when he's not looking. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more he's sure that she's right: He is a fool.

But with the new accolades come opportunities to do solo missions, which means visits to the bunker. They're few and far between, but with everything that's going on, Clint doesn't have time to think about what he's going to do with her, let alone spend time with her. Not that he should want to – he doesn't want to, that would be blasphemy of the highest order. Although when he is assigned to go to Earth, Clint's stomach always swoops at the thought of seeing her again.

"Hero," she says on his third visit. It's the first time she's spoken to him since she woke up. The other two visits were filled with green-eyed glares and sullen silence. It doesn't look like she's moved since the last time he was here, and all of the magic is still intact, along with the chains binding her to the wall.

"Adomaveth," he replies, matching her tone. She frowns.

"The Red Death," she says very evenly. "Never liked that name. I always thought it was heavy-handed. As if I'm that sloppy." Clint can't disagree with that. He's seen her in action and everything she does is precise, not a drop of blood anywhere. She doesn't seem to revel in bloodshed. "Is it everything you wanted it to be?" she asks after a long silence. Clint fights the urge to create a glamor, or wrap his wings around himself like he does when he feels uncomfortable. But he refuses to show weakness in front of her. "All the pomp and circumstances of being a hero of Heaven?"

"What do you know about it?" This time she _does_ laugh.

"What don't I know about it?" she says. "I'm Fallen, remember? One of the Devil's besties. Luci and I…what a team we were. Although I always thought that the big man upstairs liked me just a little bit better." Clint is surprised by the bitterness in her voice, not to mention the casual way she refers to the Father.

"What was your name?" Clint asks. "Before the Fall?" Clint doubts that she went by the Red Death as a soldier of Heaven.

"What's yours?" she counters. "If you don't tell me, I'll just make one up. Or keep calling you hero. Your choice."

"Quesethiel," Clint replies, unsure of why.

"Arrow of God," she translates. "A little on the nose, don't you think?"

"I didn't choose it," Clint replies.

"Also one hell of a mouthful," she goes on conversationally. "You got a nickname or something? Come on, there's no way you're going by that God-awful name." Clint flinches the casual drop of the Father's name and she smiles at his discomfort. "Sorry Quesadilla. After a couple millennia in Hell, you start to think that the whole 'thou shalt not taketh the Lord's name in vain' is a bunch of self-aggrandizing bullshit."

"You shouldn't say that," Clint says softly.

"Why? Am I going to get dragged down to Hell again? Earn another eternity in the cosmic penalty box? Because honestly, I'm still having a blast with the first one."

"Why do you talk like that?" Clint asks.

"Like what?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"The way you talk about the Fall," Clint says. "Like it wasn't a choice." Of course it was a choice. That was the whole issue. Angels don't get a say – which is why what Clint is doing is so contemptible – and when Lucifer defied God and was banished to Hell, the others chose to go with him. If they hadn't made the decision, they'd still be in Heaven. But the was Adomaveth has been talking…it's like she was _forced_ out all those years ago.

"Wasn't it?" she says quietly.

"It has to have been," Clint says. "Or else it wouldn't have happened."

"Well there you have it," she says, waving a hand and looking steadfastly away from him.

"Adomaveth – "

" _Don't call me that_ ," she snarls, suddenly on her feet, straining against the pentagram-inlaid chains. Clint staggers backward, snatching a knife out of the air and pressing it to her throat as Adomaveth tries to get to him. She freezes at the contact, but there's Hellfire burning in her green eyes. "Don't. Call me that. That is _not_ my name."

"Then what is your name?" Clint asks, stepping away from her. She paces restlessly, occasionally snapping the chain but refusing to look at him.

"I don't remember. He took it from me." That strikes Clint as odd. The other Princes know their names, even if Heaven doesn't.

"Then what do I call you?"

"Natasha," she says. "I've always like Natasha."

"Clint," Clint replies. Adom – Natasha – raises an eyebrow. "That's my nickname. I've always liked it too." She pauses, considering.

"I think I like quesadilla better."

* * *

 

After that, the tension eases. Clint makes time to visit as much as possible and she doesn't try to kill him again. He knows it's only a Band-Aid solution; that eventually he's going to have to actually do something, but for now, living in this limbo of lies is working for him. They don't talk about much, and most of the time she doesn't answer his questions. She doesn't ask many of her own.

One memorable visit, when he walks into the room, she's hanging from the celling like a bat.

"What the – "

"Hell?" she finishes, flipping back to the ground, her eyes sparkling with amusement. They're a little more than distracting. "I think I'm starting to rub off on you."

"I wasn't going to say that."

"Sure you weren't, hero," she says. "I wonder if you can swear inside the bunker without tripping a holy alarm." She levels her gaze with his. "Try it."

"Try what?"

"Swear." Clint tries to laugh it off. "Nothing's going to happen. You've got this place sealed off tighter than a nun's – "

"I don't swear," Clint says quickly, cutting her off. It's a good thing he can't blush in this form or he would be. Another very human reaction. He's been having more and more of them these days.

"You mean you don't think you _can_."

"No, I mean I don't."

"You've never even tried? Not once? Come on, even I tried swearing once before."

"You _did_?" Clint can't imagine an angel swearing. He can't imagine her as an angel either.

"I thought Gabriel was going to kill me," Natasha says. "I mean, there's sticklers and then there's _Gabe_. God, brother dearest couldn't have less of a sense of humor if he tried. Well, actually, that award might go to Mikey. Jesus H Christ, I don't know what Dad was thinking when he twisted Michael's panties." It's a shock, hearing her talk about his brothers like that. Remembering that they were her brothers too.

"You were an archangel?" There's no other way she'd know them so intimately. There isn't a lot of intermingling within the angelic hierarchy.

"Yup," Natasha says, popping the 'p.' Clint doesn't say anything, not wanting to spook her. It's the first time she's talked about being an angel. After a long silence, she continues. "Daddy's little girl. Young, ambitious, and _good_. Damn, I was good…" She trails off for a moment before coming back to herself. "But they say that the best become the worst and here we are. Your turn."

"What?" Clint asks, a little stunned by her admission.

"I bared my soul," she says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "You have to swear."

"That's not how it works."

"Just a little one. Just give me a 'God damn' or something. Come on."

"Angels can't swear."

"No, angels don't swear. Nobody's going to hear you, not in here. Especially since I do a lot of swearing and nobody's come knocking. I'm going to keep hounding you until you do."

"I could just leave," Clint offers.

"But then I'll be mad at you and our little rendezvous would become much more unpleasant. Believe it or not, I'm not always this friendly."

"This is you bring friendly?"

Natasha sticks out her tongue. "Don't be an ass. Swear. It's only fair. I mean it. Swear. Swear. Come on angel, it'll make you so much more interesting. Do it."

"Fine!" Clint says finally, cutting her off. Natasha smiles, looking pleased with herself. "Who knew demons could be so _annoying_."

"Excuse you I am delightful," Natasha replies, making a face. Clint takes a deep breath, screwing up his courage and turning away from her.

"No you're a pain in my – " Clint freezes as a cold hand clasps over his mouth. He'd walked into her range without realizing it and he expects to feel icy, angel-killing steel against his skin.

"Shhhh," Natasha murmurs, her breath light against his ear. "Be quiet. I'm going to take my hand off your mouth now." She released him and Clint jerks away from her, trying to calm his heart. He shouldn't have gotten that close, he should've been more careful – _why had she let him go_? Clint has no illusions about whatever is going on here. They might be pleasant to one another, but it's not like she has any other choice. At the end of the day, he's an angel and she's a demon. Which is why it doesn't make sense. She should be looking for ways to kill him, get out, and she squandered her opportunity.

"What are you doing?" Clint hisses.

"Someone's here," Natasha whispers. That's not possible. Like she said, this place is locked up tight. Nothing from Heaven or Hell even knows that it exists. "Humans."

"Humans?" Clint repeats dumbly. What would humans be doing here? Then again, they're the only one with access. He plucks a blade out of thin air and rounds on the door before Natasha's hand slips around his wrist. He jerks at the touch but stops nonetheless.

"If you kill them, they'll either go to Heaven or Hell. Or Purgatory, but most likely it'll be either of the two big ones. Souls are like GPS's and unless you want to alert every celestial or demonic entity in the area that this bunker is here, you can't kill them." Then what do they do? Clint's never been great at illusions and the bunker tamps down his magic as well as hers. "Let me do it."

"Not a chance," he snaps, on edge.

"Clint, I can do this. And on the love of the Father we once shared, I swear I will not betray you." He has no reason to believe her. He shouldn't believe her. But slowly, very aware that Natasha's eyes are tracking his every movement, he breaks a single sigil on the wall. The one constricting her magic, more importantly, her ability to construct glamors. "C'mere," she says, just like the night he saved her. She pulls him close, concentration already creasing her forehead. "Smaller area to magick. I can barely breathe in here." Clint feels a ridiculous flash of guilt but quickly tucks it away. Now isn't the time. Shivers crawl up his spine and Clint recognizes the touch of her magic, shielding both of them from view as two humans stagger into the room. They're blank and glassy-eyed. Remotely possessed. "Fuck," Natasha swears and Clint has to concentrate to keep from flinching. That's a bad one. The humans do a thorough sweep of the bunker and shamble out when they find nothing of consequence.

"That was close," Clint murmurs. Natasha doesn't let him go immediately and he doesn't pull away, feeling her small form crushing against him. Not that either of them are their real sizes. He shrinks his angelic form to fit inside the bunker and well, he's not exactly sure if demons are as physically massive as angels. Probably not. But she releases him before he can begin to admit to himself that he likes being so close and he gratefully steps out of her reach.

"Levi's back," Natasha says gravely. "I'd recognize his handiwork anywhere. Fuck," she swears again, angrier this time. " _Fuck_!"

"Hey, it's gonna be okay," Clint says before he can stop himself. How does he know? He doesn't. He has no idea but the despair in her green eyes is making him crazy.

"He's going to kill both of us," Natasha says in a pained whisper. "He's going to find me and wipe me off the face of the Earth and even if he lets you live, there's no way you'll stay an angel. You'll Fall for this, Clint." The thought makes his blood go cold. _You'll Fall for this_. An angel hasn't Fallen in centuries. But she's right; even if he can keep up this charade, the Father is all-knowing. His wings twitch with on-setting panic and Clint forces the thought away. He's going to be fine. He's going to be fine, she's going to live…he can figure this out. He has to figure this out. "You should've killed me," she snarls, tone accusatory. Clint backs away from the bite in her voice. "You should've killed me! It's what I – " she trails off, onyx face somehow draining of color, but the scowl remains intact.

"I'm not sorry," Clint says without looking at her.

"Get out," she orders. It's ridiculous, her ejecting him from the prison he put her in, but Clint obeys nonetheless.

"I'm not sorry. I'm not _goddamn_ sorry." He trips over the word and it feels like he's going to be struck down right then and there, but nothing happens. And as he turns to go, Clint can swear that he sees just the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. He leaves without another word.

And he doesn't re-make the sigil.

* * *

 

The next time he visits – nearly a week later – she's glamored. Clint nearly jumps out of his skin, seeing her wearing the disguise she wore the day they met. He remembers it well; red hair, flawless skin, and generous, pouty lips that smile at him when he comes in. Her eyes are closed. Clothed in human skin and still half-asleep, she looks…young. And beautiful.

"You woke me up," she says, her voice still heavy with sleep. Clint raises an eyebrow, trying to shake that last thought out of his head. _Humans_ shouldn't be beautiful to him, let alone a Prince disguised as one. What is _wrong_ with him?

"You were sleeping?" He didn't even know that she could sleep. Natasha nods, rubbing her eyes and stretching her arms over her head.

"Dreaming," she agrees. "Good dream too." What on earth could she be dreaming about that would constitute a good dream? Clint almost doesn't even want to think about it. Demons revel in death and destruction, and as much as she doesn't seem like them, as much as she reeks of reluctance, Natasha is still a creature of Hell.

"I wouldn't know," Clint mumbles awkwardly.

That's right," Natasha says, eying him up and down. "I forgot that Boy Scouts don't do much sleeping. You should. My favorite part of being stuck in Satan's sauna is napping." There she goes again, talking about her Fall like it wasn't her fault. More than once, Clint has been tempted to ask his older siblings exactly what happened on that fateful day, but he's afraid that it will call too much attention to him. And now that Leviathan has reformed in Hell, Clint is only a lot worried that he's going to come after them. "You could, you know."

"What?"

"Sleep. I'll keep watch." Clint snorts and rolls his eyes. "I'm serious."

"Right, I'll just have myself a nap while a Prince of Hell watches." Natasha scowls and turns away from him, and Clint feels an inexplicable pang of guilt. He didn't mean to hurt her feelings. Why is he even worried about her feelings? "I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"Fuck off," she snaps. Clint flinches at the swear. "You're the one keeping me here. What the hell do you think I'm going to do? You've got me hogtied to a wall and magically neutered."

"You can still glamor," Clint protests weakly.

"Yippee for me," Natasha snarls. "Don't know why I even offered. I don't think you'd be able to get the stick out of your ass long enough to actually fall asleep."

"I don't even think angels can," Clint says.

"You can. God, I always forget how straightlaced you guys are. Dad really does keep those blinders on tight."

"I don't know about that – "

"You have no idea," Natasha says in the tone of someone who knows better. "Angels have to be the most repressed creatures in all of Creation. You're all on such short leashes that you don't even know that the leash is there." Clint doesn't bother arguing with her. Partly because Natasha is impossible to reason with – he's spent more than a few hours trying to pry information out of her to no avail – and partly because, how could he argue? If she's right, then how would he know? And if he tries to defend himself, she'll just see it as further evidence against him. Besides, she's still looking at him with those angry, defensive eyes and Clint knows that nothing he says will make a difference. So instead, he very carefully lays down on the floor, folding his wings around his stomach like a feathery makeshift blanket and, making sure that she's watching, closes his eyes.

He doesn't expect anything to happen. He's never slept a minute in his life, and he doesn't think he'll start now. But slowly, his mind starts to wander, thoughts and worries turning themselves over and over again, until everything fades out completely.

Clint wakes up to green eyes just inches away from his own and jerks to his feet. His bow appears in his hands, arrow nocked and aimed before he can form a thought. Natasha skitters away, nearly crushing herself against the graffitied wall. Her mouth is open and a hiss falls out, deafening in the claustrophobic room. Natasha claps a hand over her mouth, smothering the sound, and Clint carefully lowers the bow before making it disappear altogether. For a moment they just stare at one another, both wide eyed and silent, before Natasha bursts into giggles. It takes him a moment, but Clint quickly joins in, the anxieties of the last few weeks bubbling over into slightly-hysterical laughter.

"You're a jumpy sonofabitch, you know that?" Natasha asks, still laughing.

"You just hissed at me. Hissed," Clint shoots back. "You are in no position to judge me for being jumpy. Besides, I've never slept before, let alone woken up with someone staring at me."

"Yeah, sorry," Natasha says, not sounding sorry at all. "I wanted to see if you were dreaming. You weren't, in case you couldn't tell."

"Good to know," Clint says drily.

"So how was it?" Natasha asks, a smile turning her lips up. "Your first time. You never forget your first, you know." The smile turns suggestive and once again Clint is glad for the angelic glow that conceals any urge to blush like some kind of prepubescent human.

"Fine, I guess," he says flatly, trying to control his voice. Natasha grins wider like she can hear his discomfort, but drops the subject. Clint does feel…better now. More alert. Refreshed. Is this how humans feel after waking up? No wonder they spend so much of their time asleep. Clint has wondered at that for years but all of a sudden it makes sense.

After that, napping was half of the reason Clint comes to visit, although he never dreams under his own power. That seems to be something that angels cannot do. Natasha helps with that. Although the first time she gave him a dream he nearly stabbed her. Then again, waking up to a demon's black hand pressed against his forehead while he had been completely vulnerable was enough to make anyone twitchy. It didn't help that Raphael had been asking all kinds of weird questions lately – details about Clint's missions, demanding to know exactly where he'd been and what he'd seen. He was suspicious and it was making Clint paranoid. Rightly so. If this blasphemous house of cards toppled over, he wasn't making it out of the wreckage. At least, not with his wings intact. So when he'd woken up to Natasha's fingers pressed against his skull and her face inches from his, he'd overreacted.

"Jesus tapdancing Christ," she'd sworn, leaping away from him. Clint had still been breathing hard, half-certain she'd been trying to kill him.

"What are you doing?" he'd demanded.

"Just trying to help you dream," she explained, wiggling her fingers at him. Dark magic dripped off like condensation. "I'm good at illusions, remember?" When ha hadn't answered, she'd snapped at him. "What, you think after all of this, I'm going to try and hurt you though a _nightmare_? Come on, quesadilla. You've given me a dozen and one opportunities to twist your head off your shoulders. You're not stellar at this whole jailer thing."

"Then why not?" Clint hadn't been able to stop himself. "Why not kill me?" His words rang in his ears, mimicking hers from before, when she'd demanded the same.

"I'm safe here," she answered, shrugging. "And you…" She trailed off. "You're interesting. Hellfire and damnnation does get a little old after a several hundred thousand years." It struck Clint how old she is, how long she'd been stuck in Hell, and part of him wanted to ask her more about it, but he knew she'd never answer. So the subject dropped, but lingered in the back of his mind.

But dreaming, once he'd gotten over his shock, was something unlike anything he'd experienced before. Everything was different, swirly and strange. Sometimes he can tell that it's a dream, sometimes he can't, and he always wakes with Natasha looking at him with the same small smile on her face. Sometimes she asks what he's dreaming about, but most of the time they just sit in silence. It's the nice kind of silence.

"How old are you?" Natasha asks one day. She's sipping coffee she's conjured for herself and Clint has been fussing with his wings for a while. He didn't feel the need to fill the air with conversation. Natasha, apparently, feels differently.

"A little over eight-thousand," Clint says, feeling his cheeks redden as Natasha's eyes go wide.

"You're…eight- _thousand_? You're so young!" Natasha says. "You're _so_ young. You've missed…everything. You've missed everything. Wow. Eight-thousand."

"I get it, I'm a baby," Clint mutters.

"No, no, I didn't mean it like that," Natasha says quickly, using her hand to stifle her laughter. "But there's so much you don't know, just because you weren't here!" Before he can stop her, Natasha launches into the story of Genesis – one that Clint has heart a thousand times, but never the way she tells it. "And then on the last day," she says, laughing outright now. "Dad was _way_ past exhausted, so he passed out for a while, and we all went crazy! I mean, can you imagine! A whole new world, and no Padre to tell us what to do! It was amazing. Best party ever." She sighs happily, momentarily content to live in the good memories. "And then! Ugh, and then the humans fuck it all up, and Dad hits the restart button. Noah – oh, don't even get me _started_ on Noah, what a whiney little baby. You'd think that for the only human allowed to live through the greatest catastrophe before disco, he'd be a little more grateful. But, no, it was 'Why me' this and 'You can't do this' that." Natasha sighs. "What an ass." She shoots him a sidelong look. "But you've probably heard all of this before."

"Not like that," Clint admits. Natasha grins.

"Alright buckle up, you precious little cherub, because you ain't heard nothing yet," she says, cracking her knuckles. Most of the visits after that consist of her filling him in on what he missed – what _really_ happened, according to her. And she lived it.

He loves listening to her. When she's telling stories, it's like she's a whole different person. Funny, smart…happy. And Clint is grateful to be allowed to see this side of her at all – he has a feeling no one has in a long, long time. Sometimes, she'll stop mid-sentence and Clint knows that he's staring too hard, or has a dopey look on his face. He can't help it. Something's happening to him. She's making something happen to him. And he's not afraid. In fact, he's never been happier.

When she doesn't feel like telling stories, Natasha shows him, in dreams. It's one hell of an education and Clint always wakes up with a thousand new questions.

 _This_ time, he's shaken from his dream. Clint jerks at the too-cold touch of Natasha's hands on his shoulders, careful not to touch his wings. He still hasn't worked out how she can touch him without burning himself and he knows better than to ask. Most likely, he'll get a snarky remark or sullen silence for his troubles.

"Wha – what?" Clint mumbles sleepily, snapping out of it once he sees the look on her face. The smile is gone completely. Her eyes are wide with terror and her mouth is pressed into a hard, thin line.

"Raphael," she says, the word small with fear. "He's here. Raphael is _here_." _How_? Clint thinks desperately, before another thought takes its place. _He's going to kill her_. Fierce, burning anger, unlike anything he's ever felt before, surges through. _No._ Clint sears away several of the sigils on the walls, allowing Natasha more access to her magic.

"Hide," Clint orders.

"Clint," Natasha says desperately, catching his hand before he can leave. "He will kill you if he finds me here. Raphael doesn't mess around." Her green eyes meet his, searching, imploring. "Stay with me. I can protect both of us."

"I can handle my brother," Clint insists. He pauses, raising a wing before striking it down on the pentagram-chains. They shatter, releasing the magic binding her. Natasha freezes. "If he sees through me, you have to fight him." Clint can't explain why he's freeing her, but somehow he knows that she's not going to stab him in the back. Like she said, he's given her ample opportunity before. Natasha hesitates for a moment more before rushing at him. She throws her arms around her neck and presses her lips to his, kissing him hard. The candle that was lit the last time her lips were on his is nothing compared to the bonfire that roars now.

"You come back to me, angel," she says fiercely, breaking away before he can react. "Or I'm coming out there and we're going to see if I can still kick Raffy's ass like I used to." She turns away from him, disappearing almost completely in a haze of magic and illusion, and Clint goes to face his brother.

Queshethiel," Raphael says stiffly. "Would you like to tell me what you're going here?"

"Brother," Clint says, inclining his head and trying for a respectful expression. But the anger at the idea of Raphael killing Natasha mixed with the fire in his belly after the kiss...well it didn't make for a respectful combination. "Days in Heaven are long and sometimes I look for a little solitude. Someplace quiet where I can reflect on the will of our Father." He's laying it on a little thick, but Raf lives for this stuff. He's an archangel, through and through, the kind Clint has never been. A good soldier, silent and obedient. Clint used to envy him.

"And indulge?" Raphael asks, raising an eyebrow. A single burst of panic surges through him before Clint spies a cup of coffee on an end table that wasn't there a minute ago. _Natasha_ , he thinks, thanking God for her ingenuity before realizing the idiocy of _that_ particular prayer. He'd told her about his fondness for coffee a few meetings ago, and Raphael would never believe that he's just been down here to reflect. Clint's big brother has always liked lectures.

"Unfortunately, yes," Clint admits, looking away, trying for contrition.

"You should not be tempted by mortal luxuries, brother," Raphael says sternly. "But I understand." Clint barely dares to look at him, afraid that his relief will be too visible. "I too found human sweets to my liking in my youth. But they are beneath us, Queshethiel, and you should remember yourself." Impossibly, Raphael smiles, clapping Clint on the back conspiratorially. "But you are young and should enjoy these things while you can. You have certainly earned the reward. So this will stay between us, alright?"

"Thank you," Clint murmurs, hardly believing his luck.

"You are welcome," Raphael says. "Come home soon, brother, before you are missed." The elder archangel disappears in a flash of light and Clint waits several long minutes before going back inside.

"That went well," Natasha says, waiting for him, all smiles.

"You're brilliant," Clint breathes. Her smile grows wider.

"That was good, wasn't it?" she agrees. Natasha waves her newly-unshackled wrist at him. "So what are we going to do about this?" Clint looks away. He shouldn't have kept her locked up for so long. He's known for a long time that she's no danger to him.

"You can go," he says without looking at her. "There's nothing keeping you here."

"I can think of something," she says in a low voice. "C'mere angel. I've got something to show you." Clint doesn't object, the fire spurring him on. This time when Natasha's mouth presses against his own, he doesn't hesitate, kissing her back fiercely. Natasha makes a small, pleased noise at his enthusiasm and kisses him deeper, pushing his mouth open and sweeping her tongue inside. Clint growls, a long, low sound from the back of his throat that turns into a bitten-off groan as Natasha breaks away from him. She eyes him up and down appraisingly and Clint doesn't flinch under her gaze. He returns the stare, his eyes going every inch of her, greedy as the rest of him. She's perfect, demonic onyx skin, satanic markings and all. And he wants her. Clint has never experienced this kind of wanting, not in all of his existence. "We're going to have fun," Natasha promises, pushing him down onto a bed that hadn't been there a moment before. She's on top of him before he can comment on it, trailing hot kisses down his neck and clavicle. They burn as she sucks hard on his glowing skin and somehow Clint knows that they're going to leave marks behind. How he's going to explain them, Clint has no idea. But his trail of thought is cut off quickly when Natasha bites down, nipping the hollow of his throat - _hard_. He moans again and Natasha snickers, bringing her face back up to his. Clint seizes the opportunity, stealing long, deep kisses that she seems more than willing to give. Something coils low and slow in his gut, below his navel and it's like nothing he's ever felt before. Desire. The word finally comes to mind and not for the first time since he met Natasha, Clint wishes to be human.

"You're very good at this," she whispers in his ear, her voice husky and low and driving him absolutely crazy. She bites on his bottom lip, and he can feel the coolness of her breath inside his mouth. Clint shivers. They kiss and kiss until Clint is only aware of her mouth on his and those green eyes. Finally, and not because he wants to, Clint pulls away, pressing a kiss to her forehead and pulling her against him so that they're face to face. Natasha whines her discontent, but doesn't push it. This is…it's more than he's ever had before, with anyone. Let alone a demon. Let alone a Prince.

"Oh, we're in trouble, aren't we?" Natasha murmurs against his chest.

"I think so," Clint replies softly. He's going to lose his wings over this. The though comes unbidden and Clint feels nothing but faint, detached dread.

"Good," Natasha says humorlessly. "Because Luci needs another reason to come after me."

"Why are they coming off of you?" Clint asks the question that has been plaguing at him for weeks. "You're – "

"A Prince?" Natasha finishes. "Well the Luci-Tasha dream team has long since split. He may or may not want my head on a spike."

"What did you do?" Clint hardly dares to ask.

"I stopped doing what demons do," Natasha says. Her hands ball into fists, digging into Clint's side. "I stopped collecting souls. I started actively going against him. I cut my way through an entire legion of demons before he caught on." She shudders. "Sometimes, I think people forget that there's a reason he's the Devil. I thought I was going to die. Again. And now all of Hell is after me, on top of Heaven." She laughs, but it's a bitter, short sound. "There's literally nowhere I can go. I step out that door and I'm dead."

"That's not going to happen," Clint promises, anger boiling through him again.

"Clint," Natasha says, turning so that she's on top of him again, straddling his hips. "Queshethiel. Listen to me. You can't stop them. Hell, maybe. Heaven, maybe. But not both of them. And not over me." _I'm not worth it_. She doesn't say the words, but Clint can see them spelled out in her eyes. And she's wrong. She's so wrong.

"Why did you Fall?"

"I didn't," Natasha replies softly. Clint leans up on his elbows, trying to look at her, but she won't meet his gaze. Clint doesn't want to push but it doesn't make sense – she wouldn't be in Hell if she hadn't Fallen. She'd still be in Heaven. None of it makes _sense_. "Luci and the others were the ones who Fell. But Lucifer…he dragged me down with him." Her voice is wooden and she still won't look at him. "It was his final insult. I was Dad's favorite and Luci took me with him as a final 'fuck you.' I never had a chance. Or a choice. I thought that Dad would take care of me, but He stripped my wings and cast me out with the rest of them. For years, thousands of years, I thought that maybe one day He'd taken me back, but He never did. I prayed for years. I fought Lucifer for…I don't know how long. But none of it did any good. And I _hated_ Him for it. Both of them. But I'm _tired_. I don't want to do this anymore."

"You don't have to," Clint promises, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"You can't stop them," Natasha says again, sounding more resigned than anything else. That scares him. More than the Princes, more than the Devil, more than the fury of Heaven.

"I can try," Clint insists. Natasha looks at him strangely, and something glitters in her eyes that he can't place.

"Clint," she murmurs, the word barely a whisper. She kisses him softly and Clint is more than happy change the subject, tilting his head to meet her lips more fully. Her touch sends tingles shivering down his spine and too late, Clint tastes the bite of her magic. "Oh, Clint," she says, cupping his face in her hands. Clint tries to respond, tries to move, but whatever she's done has rendered him immobile. "I'm sorry. But you are not dying. Not for me." She kisses him once more and it feels like a goodbye. "If I survive this, I'm coming back for you." And just like that, she's gone, leaving Clint alone.

* * *

 

He's stuck like that for a long time, cursing her, cursing his own foolishness. He never should've saved her in the first place. He never should've locked her up. He never should've let her in. And now she's off on some kind of suicide mission and despite everything, Clint feels sick at the thought of her getting hurt. Clint fights the magic for what feels like a lifetime, until finally - _finally_ \- he can move again.

He's got no idea where she is, but if there's one thing he's grown to know in the past weeks, it's Natasha's signature. And it calls to him like a beacon as he tears through the air. Clint doesn't even bother with a glamor. The closer he gets, the more his panic grows, as does his certainty that something terrible has happened.

And then he finds her.

"Oh my God," Clint says, the swear slipping out before he can stop it. He doesn't care. In that moment, he doesn't care about offending God, Heaven, or anyone. All he can see is Natasha, collapsed on the dirty ground. "Please don't be dead, please don't be dead," he prays desperately, kneeling next to her prone body. She's not moving, not breathing. She's…she's broken, in every sense of the word. Lacerations crisscross all over her body, some of them deep enough to practically tear her in two. She's sprawled at an odd angle, bent in half, and her leg is crumpled under her. The cement floor is damp with black demon blood. "Natasha. Natasha, can you hear me?" He kneels by her head, heedless of the blood sizzling against his skin. For several long seconds there's nothing but silence and he's sure that she's dead.

"Que...sadilla," she mumbles. Clint can barely make out the word but relief blooms in his chest. Her eyes are only slits, but they're open. She's alive. She's alive. The words are like a mantra inside his head. _She's alive she's alive she's alive._

"Thank Heaven," he breathes, holding her against his chest.

"Heaven didn't have shit to do with it," Natasha gasps. "Thank...Leviathan and Beelzebub."

"I'm getting you out of here," Clint says, ignoring the hot flash of rage that floods through his veins.

"Don't...don't think – " The words are cut off with a painful wheeze. Her eyes turn glassy with fear and Clint knows that they're not alone. He stands slowly, drawing himself up to his full height and turning to face the intruders, making sure to keep her behind him.

"Well, well," a fat, ugly demon says, it's voice a thin, wheedling rasp. Beelzebub. "You were right, brother. I didn't think it could be true but – " The demon breaks into high-pitched giggles and Clint curls his lip in a snarl. "An angel….and a demon! A Prince! Oh it is _rich_."

"Pathetic," Leviathan growls. "And _we_ are the scourge of Heaven. You have betrayed your mandate, angel." He smiles unpleasantly. "I think we should put you out of your misery. And then finish off our dear little sister once and for all."

"You can try," Clint grinds out, glowing as brightly as he can and drawing on every bit of power he possesses. Fighting just one Prince had almost killed him last time, and even then Natasha had been the one to finish him off. Clint doesn't like his odds against two of them. All in all, things were looking pretty bleak.

It's never stopped him before. Even before Natasha, Clint used to jump into scraps all the time. Nothing he couldn't handle, but it always drove his siblings crazy. They would throw themselves into the line of fire without question – when Heaven commanded it. Clint sought out fights that the Father hadn't decreed and the other archangels cursed his recklessness. He always claimed that it was practice. Hopefully it can give him some kind of advantage now. But somehow he doubts it.

The demons move before he does, striking in tandem, sinuous as snakes. Clint bats them both away, his vision narrowing until it's just him and the Princes. He's on the defense, and losing from the get-go. They're too strong - stronger than him - and for every blow he makes, there's two striking at him. Clint can't keep up. He has no idea how long the fight lasts; it can't be much longer than a few minutes, though to him it feels like years. They destroy nearly every weapon he pulls out of his arsenal, forcing him to adapt at every turn. Beelzebub, for his slovenly appearance, is deceptively fast, and after slicing his claws across Clint's middle he pounces, knocking him flat and landing on his chest. Clint bites back a scream as his wing is crushed beneath him.

"You," the Prince says, spitting and drooling acidic saliva, "are disappointing. When I heard that our precious baby sister had fallen for – " He giggles again, covering his mouth with his hand, and Clint struggles to get any kind of handhold. He is not going out like this, at the hands of Chuckles the Clown from Hell. Not going to happen. "Fallen for an _angel_. Well I expected a bit, well…more."

"And when my brothers and sisters told me about Beelzebub," Clint wheezes from the weight on his chest. "I never expected a fat, self-aggrandizing…" He heaves, pulling his last knife out of the air and plunging it into the Prince's neck. " _Dick_." Beelzebub splutters, pinwheeling backwards and giving Clint the room he needs. With one sweep of his arm, he lops the Prince's head clean off of his shoulders. It bounces once, twice, three times, before the demon dissolves into dust.

"Impressive," Leviathan says, a slow laugh building. Clint is really getting sick of these guys laughing at him. "I do not think you find me so easy to dispatch this time." Clint rounds on him, palming the knife and spitting the white-gold blood out of his mouth.

"Let's see," Clint snarls. He doesn't take more than two steps towards the demon when something erupts from Leviathan's chest. Clint staggers to a halt, and it takes him a moment to realize that it's a hand.

"You never were good at watching your back," Natasha hisses, pressing her mouth to Leviathan's ear. Her hand squeezes something and Clint sees that it's a _heart_. Leviathan's heart.

"You're never…going to live through this," Leviathan gurgles. Black foam fills his mouth, streaming down his chin.

"And you're always underestimated your _precious baby sister_ ," Natasha says coldly, yanking her arm out of Leviathan's chest and tossing his crushed heart away. The Prince stays on his feet for a moment more before crumbling into nothing. But Clint isn't looking at him anymore; he's more worried about Natasha, who is swaying dangerously on her feet. How she even managed to stand up is beyond him, let alone force her hand through Leviathan's chest. "He's an asshole," she murmurs, before collapsing. Clint rushes forward, catching her before she can hit the ground.

"Natasha," Clint whispers into her hair. "Natasha, Natasha, Natasha."

"You are yelling," Natasha groans. "In my ear."

"Never again," Clint says, rocking her against him. "Never do that to me again."

"Promise," Natasha mumbles. "I'll try to live too, just 'cause I like ya."

"You better," Clint says, low in his throat. "You're not dying on me now, not now. Hold on, I'm getting us out of here." Clint pulls Natasha's busted arms around his neck and screws up the last of his strength, teleporting both of them out of there. He can't go back to the bunker. Raphael knows that he's there, but there aren't that many places where both an angel and a demon can hide. Especially not places that he can get them to quickly. Teleportation is a Heavenly ability, and it fights against Natasha's demonic energy. Clint needs to find a place to land and fast, or they're going to get knocked out of the sky.

Finally, he touches down in secluded area outside of the District of Colombia, in the United States. It's not nearly as fortified as the bunker – more of a shack than anything – but it's something, and Clint is able to put up some magical barriers of his own before he passes out.

* * *

 

Healing is slow for both of them, but it's worse for Natasha. What they did to her…it goes beyond physical damage. Some days she doesn't wake up at all, and Clint worries over her all day, making sure that she hasn't up and died on him. Once, she stopped breathing altogether and Clint nearly went insane trying to wake her. Which only earned him a slap on the head and a mumbled order to stop being such a nagging old lady. Some days are better, and she's awake for more than a few hours at a time. They don't talk much; Clint insists that she focus her energy on healing because if she dies after all of this, he doesn't know what he's going to do. When they do talk, Natasha tells him about the Heaven she knew. He can tell that it hurts her, talking about her time as an angel, but she always volunteers the information. Like, since she's already opened up so much, he may as well have it all. And for a while, it's enough. Natasha tells her stories and gets better, Clint listens and pours as much of himself into keeping them safe as he can without tripping any angelic alarms. But every time he leaves their little encampment, he's reminded of exactly how much trouble they're in.

Not to mention that he's been ignoring the calls from Heaven to come home. And just like orders, you don't ignore a call from Heaven. Every time he steps outside the wardings, he can hear his siblings calling to him. Communication between angels is silent and instantaneous, and Clint's been pushing it aside, trying to force it into the very back of his mind where he can't hear it. Which, of course, doesn't work. It never works. And from the sounds of things, Heaven is _not_ happy with their rogue angel.

"Angel radio acting up?" Natasha asks, awake when Clint reappears. Clint shoots her a look. "You look like you've got a headache, and the bigwigs upstairs don't like it when you don't answer the phone."

"Angel radio," Clint repeats, shaking his head.

"Hey, I'd take Heaven yakking in my ear over the Hellish equivalent any day."

"You've got a Hell equivalent?"

"Oh yeah," Natasha says, wincing. "And listening to the souls of the damned being tortured all day every day? Not as fun as you might think. In case you're wondering, there's an all-call out for my head on a spike. Yours too. Luci ordered it special."

"I'm touched," Clint says sarcastically, before the weight of what she's said settles on him. "You can hear them?" Natasha nods. Clint kneels next to her, pressing gentle kisses against one ear and then the other. "I'll find a spell do you never have to hear it again," he promises. He has no idea if he can actually come through, but the relief on her face is worth it.

They can't go on like this. Clint knows it, and Natasha knows it, but neither of them wants to say it. Saying it would make it real, and the reality is that neither of them is going to get out of this alive. Clint, if he's lucky, will have his wings stripped and be cast into Hell, but there's no way Leviathan and Beelzebub will let him off the hook. Not when he's helped kill them – in Leviathan's case – twice. None of this is going to last. But it doesn't scare him, not anymore. The thought of being cast out used to fill him with unimaginable dread, but now…it's worth it. _She's_ worth it. And he doesn't regret anything that's happened. Because he might have saved her first, but Natasha saved him in every way that matters. _When I heard that our precious baby sister had fallen for an angel…_ Beelzebub's whiney voice pops into his head, along with the phrase that Clint has worried over and over in his mind since the battle. Fallen for an angel. He's never understood that expression – a human expression. Falling for someone. But, with his own Fall imminent, Clint finally understands.

He finally understands why humans have gone to war for love. He's already fighting both Heaven and Hell for Natasha and if that's not war, he doesn't know what is.

"Do you wanna know why I didn't kill you?" Natasha asks softly, shaking him out of his thoughts and pulling him close. Clint goes to her without complaint, feeling her body fold around his own. Her arms wrap around his middle and she nestles her head into the crook where his shoulder and neck meet.

"You said I was interesting," Clint replies, remembering. "And then you almost kissed me."

"Your first kiss?" Natasha teases.

"I'm not sure that it counts," Clint says, tilting his head back and kissing her cheek. "But yes."

"I like being your first. My unspoiled little angel," Natasha purrs and Clint can feel the sound all the way through him, coiling in that low place below his navel. "But I could see you. You had doubts. In all of my life, I've never met an angel that questioned their orders."

"Not even you?"

"Are you kidding? I did whatever Dad said, whenever he said. I was just _so desperate_ for his love." She sniffs. "Which got me jack-fucking-shit when they tore my wings off." Clint frowns, familiar anger stoking within him, and he strokes his fingers along the gold scars where her wings used to be.

"I bet they were beautiful," he murmurs into her dark skin.

"They were." She pauses, shifting to look at him. "Tell me we're going to be okay." Clint bites his lip, the quiet desperation in her voice making his heart ache.

"We're going to be okay," he says diligently. Neither of them believes it; they both know that this is going to end soon, and it's going to end bloody.

The end comes with a knock on the door. Natasha twitches in her sleep, before jerking awake, her eyes wide and her pupils no larger than pinpricks.

"Shit," she curses. "Shit shit shit – _shit_!" Clint pulls his bow out of the air, an arrow already nocked and ready. "Clint, you need to get out of here. You need to – " Her words are cut off as the door slams open with a _bang_ and a figure walks in. Clint looses an arrow as soon as the door opens, but figure just raises a hand and it falls out of the air. Another flick of the wrist and Clint is thrown against the wall, like some enormous, invisible hand is crushing him. He can hardly breathe, but he gets a good look at the figure – the creature – that comes inside.

Clint has wondered for years and years what the Devil looks like. Humans imagine a red man with cloven hooves, horns, and pointed horns. He was supposed to be the most beautiful of the angels before God tossed him out. The reality is something in the middle.

"Honey, I'm _ho-ome_!" Lucifer trills, stepping theatrically and waving his hands in the air. He's short. That's Clint's first, ridiculous impression. Short and blonde and wearing a red silk suit. "Well, well, look at this little love shack. I must say, my darling Adomaveth, this isn't really your style." Natasha is standing, facing him, and to her credit, shows no fear. Clint feels enough for the both of them; his heart is hammering in his chest, and it doesn't help that whatever Lucifer is doing to him, it feels like his throat is stuck in a vice.

"Get _away_ – from her!" Clint chokes out, before the pressure increases and the words are cut off completely.

"Hush hush little angel, you'll get your turn. I want to talk to my little sister now." He turns his attention back to Natasha. "Because we have much to discuss. I was so hurt when you left us, Maveth. You've always been my favorite – the _best_ – and then you just leave? You Fell with us, little sister, you might as well stick it out."

"I never Fell with you," Natasha snarls, holding her ground. Lucifer shoots Clint a conspiratorial look.

"Is that what she told you, Queshethiel? Yes, I know your name. I'm sure Adomaveth here spun you a tragic tale. Told you how I tore her down with us, how I used her to punish the Esteemed Father." Lucifer chuckles, shaking his head sadly. "She played you for a fool, my friend."

 _I am not your friend_ , Clint wants to yell, but the pressure on his throat doesn't allow it.

"Adomaveth was the very worst of us," Lucifer continues. "Oh, the very worst. A scourge on the Father even before we were cast down. Always sneaking out, defying orders. Honestly, her gumption helped give me the courage to make the schism in the first place."

"That's _not true_ ," Natasha snarls.

"Now now sis, don't lie. It's a sin," Lucifer says with a simpering laugh. He makes a small motion with his hand and Clint gasps soundlessly as his wing is wrenched behind him. The _snap_ of the bone breaking bounces off of the walls, filling the small room.

"Stop!" Natasha cries, rushing at him.

"Ah-ah," Lucifer says, and Clint's other wing bends beneath him, but doesn't snap. Somehow, Clint manages to scream before the magic silences him again. He didn't know that _not_ having a broken wing could be worse than breaking one and he can hardly see through the haze of pain. Natasha freezes a step away from the Devil, horror dawning on her face. "I sure would hate to hurt your angel, little sister. Now, if you're good, I'm going to break his wing, just for you. If not, we're going to stay like this all day, and honestly, I don't think he'll last that long." Clint doesn't think so either. He's an angel; he's meant to handle pain. But not like this. This is agony, and his vision is already fading. He can feel the muscles and tendons stretching as Lucifer pulls his wing further and further past its breaking point.

 _He's going to rip it off_. Clint realizes, the single thought cutting through the pain. _He's going to rip my wing off_.

"Stop it!" Natasha shouts.

"Do you promise to play nice?"

"Yes," Natasha says, her voice ragged. "I promise Luci, I promise, just _stop_." Lucifer smiles beatifically, and flicks his hand. The snap echoes, louder than the last. Clint exhales, nearly blacking out from relief as the pressure is released. He still can't speak or move, and his wing is screaming from being bent so far out of shape and broken, but it's something.

"Where was I?" Lucifer says, tapping his lip thoughtfully. "Right. Adomaveth played you like a fiddle, my very young friend. A very stupid, feathery fiddle. Like in the song!" He says happily. "Come on, you must know the song, it's a classic! _The Devil goes down to Georgia, he was lookin' for a soul to steal…_ No? Angel, you need to get out more. But I'm rambling. I so infrequently have such a captive audience, you can't hold it against me. I do love the attention. Anyway, what I was saying is that Adomaveth was the very worst of us. We all rebelled, but she reveled in it."

"It's not true," Natasha snarls, but she doesn't move to attack him again. "It's not _true_!"

"You're _lying_ , sister!" Lucifer shouts, some of the humor draining away. Clint wheezes, feeling all of the air being forced out of his lungs. Something is wrong, he realizes with a stab of dread. Something is wrong with him, something is _missing_.

He can't breathe. He can't breathe and it's not from lack of trying. Clint gasps, clawing at his neck, but no matter what he does, he can't _breathe_. The magic holding him up is released and Clint collapses to the ground, curling in on himself. He can't speak, can't scream. He feels like his insides are being turned out. He thought having his wing ripped off hurt…this is worse. This is so much worse.

Natasha flies to his side, her hands hovering just over his skin. Clint catches a glimpse of her face as he convulses and it's drawn tight with pain.

"Let him go _,"_ Natasha chokes out. "Lucifer, _please_!"

"You lied," Lucifer says, sounding more like a disappointed parent than the Devil. "You're breaking the rules, sis. We just talked about this. If you lie, I hurt him. Tell the truth."

"I was the worst," Natasha says desperately. "I was the worst of you." She pauses. "I said it! _Give him his lungs back_!"

"And about the sad little story you spun him?" Clint shakes his head, tries to tell her that it's not worth it – that _he's_ not worth it, but she won't meet his gaze.

"I lied to get you to trust me," Natasha says, biting off each word. "I played you and you bought it."

"Very good," Lucifer says coolly. The feeling of _missing_ something vanishes and Clint inhales deeply, spluttering like a fish. He doesn't know how long he just lies there, gulping as much air as he can and trying to get his breath back, with Natasha rubbing soothing circles into his back.

"You have to…" Clint says, his voice wispy and frail. "Get out of here, Tash. He can't – he can't have you…again."

"What do you want, Luci?" Natasha demands, whirling to face him and standing protectively over Clint's body. "What do you really want?"

"I want you to come home," Lucifer says. "You're family, and we Fallen have to stick together." Clint can see how hard she's fighting not to contradict him. Or fly at him. Either. Both. "I'm willing to clean the slate. All you have to do is come home with me."

"Back to Hell," Natasha spits.

"Home is where the heart is, little sister, and you gave yours up a long time ago. I'll even sweeten the deal. You can keep the angel." He smiles unpleasantly, an upturn of fat, pink lips. " _How_ you keep him is up to you. Send him back to Heaven, or take him with us, it's up to you."

"He stays," Natasha says through gritted teeth.

"What was that?"  
"He stays," Natasha says again, looking him in the eye. Clint suddenly understands the human expression 'If looks could kill.' "Let me say goodbye." Lucifer waves good-naturedly and Natasha kneels by Clint's side again, cradling his head in her lap.

"D-don't," Clint manages, the word setting his chest on fire. "Please don't."

"I have to," Natasha whispers. "You saved me, now it's my turn."

"You already saved me," Clint insists, trying to get her to understand. Why won't she understand? He can't lose her. He _won't_ lose her. His whole life he's felt broken, wrong and imperfect and she…she's broken too. Differently, but just as spectacularly messed up as he is. And Lucifer... _he's_ the one who broke her, no matter what he's making her say. Clint won't let him have her again. He won't. "Kiss me." Natasha doesn't say a word, but when she presses her lips to his, it tastes too much like their last farewell.

"I've fallen for you," Clint says, the confession barely audible, and then Natasha's eyes flash open. Clint smiles, pulling her deeper into the kiss, and something passes between them. It's a gift, given freely: His grace. The very essence of who he is and what makes him an angel. Heaven won't take him now, not without it. He has, but his own hand, Fallen. For her. All for her.

Something of her passes to him as well, and Clint doesn't know if it's an accident or not, but fire blooms within him. Not pain, or desire, or anger. Something different. Something… _Natasha_. It's Hellfire.

"I've Fallen too," Natasha says against his mouth, and Clint knows that the fire was a gift.

Somehow, Clint manages to stand under his own power, the little piece of Natasha giving him strength. It's unlike anything he's felt before. Everything around him pulses with vitality and life that he's never noticed. And he's analyzing weaknesses and strengths, planning attacks, before he can so much as think it.

"She," Clint says, his voice coming out rougher than he's ever heard it, "is going nowhere with you." Natasha's fingers entwine with his as she stands beside him. It feels _right_ and despite the fact that they're facing down the Devil, Clint feels no fear.

"And you," Natasha says, glowing beside him like Clint's never seen he. Not angelic. Not demonic. Something in the middle, gold and more beautiful than ever. "Are not my family. You short, blonde, cheap-suit-wearing _motherfucker_." The temperature in the room rises noticeably, and Lucifer's pleasant smile drops.

"You two," he hisses, a forked tongue darting from between those fat lips. "You fools. You think you can defy me? An angel and one of my Princes? I made you, _Adomaveth_." His face ripples, distorted and terrifying. Shifting between the blonde face, and something dark and terrible. "I created you. Took you from the side of our Father as I Fell, stripped those beautiful wings myself. You were nothing before me – you don't even have a name anymore because _I_ took it from you! You were _nothing_ and I made you a Prince. And this you repay me? For an _angel_? Not even one of worth. The arrow of God, how _pathetic_." _Let's see_ , Clint thinks, summoning his bow, and he can't help notice how different it looks. Gone is the Heavenly glow, replaced by a dark tinge, a wispy energy that glides along the shaft like mist. His straight-arrows are gone, replaced by arrowheads with wickedly barbed tips. It's…Hellish. Clint grins; it'll do. Without hesitation, he looses the arrow, just as Natasha leaps across the room, a golden knife clasped in each hand. They impact together, Clint's arrow striking true in the Devil's chest, her knives impaling him in the neck.

"My name," she snarls, "is Natasha." She yanks the knives free, and Clint nocks another arrow. They know that they're not enough. This, whatever this is that they've done, this mingling of Heaven and Hell, it's not enough. Not to kill him.

But it's enough for Clint, to die by her side.

"Fools!" Lucifer shouts, his appearance shifting and distorting. "Bloody fools!" Clint looses the arrow and Natasha screams a battle cry, but neither of them make it. There's a buzzing in Clint's ears and white haze descends on his vision like fog. Lucifer, the shack, it all drains away. Everything but Natasha. Her hand finds his the moment they touch ground again, holding him tight.

"What the – " Clint starts. They're in Heaven. He'd recognize the muted colors of home anywhere. But it's no place he's ever been before, and there's no one around.

"Hell?" A voice cuts him off, a voice that resonates in his bones, and as Clint and Natasha whirl to face the newcomer, Clint has no doubt at who it is. God.

Only, Clint never imagined God as a black man with an eyepatch. Or as wearing a trenchcoat.

"You look a little shook up, kid," the man – God – says. "The both of you." Natasha is watching Him closely, her green eyes narrowed. "I guess I'd better introduce myself. I'm – "

"God?" Natasha says, her voice low. Not good.

"Yes and now. I'm a busy guy, with a universe to run. Can't expect all of me to be here talking to you, or anywhere at one time, for that matter. I'm God's…more righteous side. His Fury. It's some fine work you two have done," Fury continues when none of them pipe in. Clint doesn't know if he can. He's talking to God. _His_ God. A God that just plucked them from certain death at the hands of the Devil. He turns to Natasha to gage her reaction but she's not looking at him. She's staring at Fury with the blackest kind of rage on her face.

"Was it worth it?" she snarls. "Letting him torture me for all of these years?"

"Natasha – "

"You _let this happen to me_!"

"And I'm sorry." The apology stifles any rant she'd had planned, and Natasha's mouth snaps shut. "You ever hear of the problem of theodicy? The three-legged stool? God is either omnipotent, omnipresent, or good. I can't be all three; one always cancels out the other. And I have no dominion over Hell, Natasha. You think I didn't hear you? _You_ were Lucifer's final assault on me, and I could not save you. For that, I am sorry."

"Then why now? What changed?"

"You did." Fury replies. "When Clint passed his grace to you, you came under my power again. I could save you both."

"Give me my wings back," Natasha demands. Fury smiles, gesturing with a hand.

"You didn't notice?" Clint does a double take, gawking as he realizes that the ugly scars that marred her back are gone, replaced with enormous wings. Pitch-black wings, the feathers glinting like knives. "There's still a little Hell in you, Nat. You too, arrow-boy." _Arrow-boy?_ "But then again, neither of you were ever going to be run-of-the-mill soldiers." Fury's grin widens. "I want to talk to you about the other angels like you. I call them the Aven – "

"Shut it," Natasha says, cutting across him and Clint's heart leaps into his throat. She just…to _God_ …God's _Fury_ no less? They're going to get smited. Right here, right now, right when they just got saved. Oh _shit_. "We're saved right? One-hundred percent, no take-backs?" Fury nods, looking a little more than put-out. "And you get that we're not going to play like your good little toy soldiers?" Fury nods again, stiffer this time. "Then shoo. Me and the angel, we've got unfinished business." Fury disappears without another word, leaving them in their own little private Heaven.

"What now?" Clint ventures. Natasha grins at him, gold and black and green and _beautiful_. Her wings flare wide and there's something in her smile that makes Clint hum with desire.

"C'mere," she murmurs, biting her bottom lip. Clint goes to her without a word, scooping her into his arms and Natasha whispers into his ear: "I got something to show you."


End file.
